


everything feels like a tragedy

by Teroe



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Clexa Week 2018, Day 6, F/F, Famous, Rock Star Clarke, and, and other minor characters - Freeform, indie musician lexa, this is very much clexa centered
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-25 21:50:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13843725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teroe/pseuds/Teroe
Summary: that one where clarke’s a rock star and lexa’s an indie musician and sometimes life gets in the way





	everything feels like a tragedy

**Author's Note:**

> this has been stewing in my mind for a while, so here's part one of maybe three. posted for day 6 of clexaweek 'cause it was a perfect fit. come find me at kokkoro on tumblr and yell at me about clexa.

There’s this small coffee shop near prospect that you love. It’s small and quaint and they serve alcohol after two, but more often than not you find yourself with a small coffee and half a sandwich at one of the outdoor tables going over some work. Your first gig was here, years ago on that tiny dias in the back with the little stool and spotlight and the piano that’s out of tune. You remember sitting up there with just your guitar and that spotlight and nobody even looked at you, but it felt like a start. It’s why, when you finally can say that you’ve made it (not particularly big, but you hear yourself on the radio and it’s an odd experience you haven’t quite yet figured out how to describe), it’s the first place you think of. It’s kind of like home.

Over the weekend Billboard magazine had emailed you about an interview and you had, however reluctantly, agreed, but it’s nice to see they’re more nervous than you. He’s a young man in his early twenties, an intern if his preparedness is anything to go by. He has this leatherbound notebook and stack of papers of notes and questions and a tape recorder he fiddles with, but luckily for you he settles with time.

It’s nice and Indra will be happy with the press.

“It’s been six months since your EP was released, are you excited that your full work is finally going to be out there?”

You take the sunglasses from your head, running your fingers through your hair to get rid of the itch your feeling, and hang them from the v of your t-shirt. The breeze is cool, and on a summer’s day like this it feels like heaven.

“It’s a relief,” you say. “You spend so much time in your own head, cooped up in the studio that letting it all out is…” You exhale, lowering your eyes to your cup of iced tea. You give a little shake of your head before glancing back up, tapping your index finger against your temple. “It’s quiet now. At least for a little bit.”

“You gathered quite the amount of attention over the last couple of months. Your first single broke the top forty. Did you expect it?”

“No.” In fact it still hasn’t sunken in after all these months. You’d be doing this no matter the success, and despite that part of you that is… displeased, perhaps, with the turn of events that followed that fateful tweet three months ago you can’t say that it was bad. “But it was a pleasant surprise.”

“Is it true you and Clarke Griffin are friends?”

“We’re only acquaintances,” you say with a subtle shake of your head and a quirk to your lips.

“But she likes your music.”

And you smile a little bit at that. “I don’t know why.”

 

* * *

 

You had first met Clarke Griffin at charity concert in los angeles three months ago. She had waved at you in between a sip of her drink and it was only then that you had realized you’d been staring. She was making her way from the open bar with a glass in each hand, hair tousled and cheeks flushed from a previous performance. This almost rosey glow that you’d swear she was high.

And maybe she was, or maybe it was the alcohol, but you’d remember that look on her face for the rest of your life. Because it was how you felt when you wrote music. When you would sit at home in the corner of your apartment and sing from the void in your gut.

She introduces herself later that night, as if you didn’t already know her, but the thought is nice and her eyes are pretty so you don’t mind looking at them. She asks if you sing and you say yes with this little smile of your own but she’s whisked away before anything really has a chance to unfold and you think, maybe, it's for the best.

 

* * *

 

It’s warm. Too warm. You’re halfway down this red carpet and your side aches, the way the fabric of your blouse rubs against the sensitive skin over your ribs and the fresh ink that’s etched there. You try to ignore it as lights flash and people holler, focused past the wall of paparazzi beyond the barricade and pointedly ignoring the various sections set aside on the carpet for interviews.

There’s general busy noise as those around you mingle, in no particular hurry to be crammed into a hall for three hours and a part of you feels out of place, yearning for the stillness of your New York apartment and the familiarity of the strings of your guitar pressed under your fingers. You regard them politely because you’re not an ass and these pictures are bound to crop up on the internet eventually, but when you catch sight of her, pulled aside by an overly eager Rolling Stones representative, you’re surprised by how fast the rest falls away.

She’s dressed almost too casually for a red carpet, but another part of you expects nothing less from a rock star. Skin tight black jeans and matching chelsea boots, this simple but nice white v-neck shirt under a leather jacket. She laughs and the sound carries and you find yourself closing your mouth, clenching the slackness from your jaw.

She’s flanked by three men her age and they’re all wide smiles and causal nonchalance. They needle and prod her, like siblings, and she shoos them, swatting at their hands until they relent with grins that show no remorse. You watch her roll her eyes, looking away exasperated, and you know before it hits you.

In fact, you expect it. Look forward to it.

She catches your eyes and looks more than a bit surprised. You feel the inside of your stomach turn pleasantly and you wave before you can think better of it. The corner of her mouth pulls up into this half smile, subtly waving back before returning to her interview.

The rest of the red carpet is a blur. You smile a bit more, and this lovely young woman weedles you into an interview for vogue and you find you don’t mind, smiling at the way she fumbles over her words as you join her up on the platform.

You’re halfway through explaining your upcoming performances when you catch sight of Clarke out of the corner of your eye and you know you shouldn’t but you take your eyes off the woman in front of you to look at her.

“How are you?” she asks.

You’re not sure if the microphone can pick up the sound of her voice, but you hear it. The interviewer pulls back, turning towards the interruption, and you hear her exclamation of surprise at the sight she finds.

You merely tilt your head, fighting off a smile. “Well, thank you.”

Clarke looks at the camera when it settles on her, her three bandmates looking dastardly debonair behind her, cracking up once they can no longer hold it in. Clarke ignores them, subtly gesturing to you like she’s letting the audience watching at home in on a secret. “She’s great. Thought you all should know.”

You feel a blush settle lightly over your cheeks and you don’t really know what to make of it. You’re twenty-seven and while you don’t feel old it’s all a bit juvenile and childish but you secretly can’t get enough of that sweeping feeling in the pit of your stomach.

You turn back after a moment, focused again only to realize you lost your train of thought. Luckily, or not, you don’t have to find your way back.

“Clarke Griffin?” the interviewer hums and she holds out the microphone expectantly. “You know each other?”

Your smile is soft, barely there. “We’re just acquaintances.”

 

* * *

 

You don’t pay much attention to the music scene. You have your own work to do and it won’t get anywhere with you distracted. You do like background noise though, and while fiddling with a tricky chord in the sanctuary of your apartment, daytime television plays discreetly on the tv at the other end of the room.  
  
It’s a coincidence then that you look up at the sound of the audience applause, soft from the volume turned low, and find Clarke grinning ear to ear on the guest couch of some talk show. Your fingers still and you watch for a moment, taken by the way she fixes her hair, threads her fingers through it. How it hinders rather than helps the disarray.

“Clarke Griffin!” The host welcomes to another roar of applause, and you lean back in your seat, propping your foot up on the stool next to your chair as your fingers travel soundlessly over the frets of the guitar, right hand motionless against the bridge. “Thank you for taking time out of your hectic schedule to join us today. How’ve you been? I feel like it's been forever since we’ve last had time to chat.”

“Busy,” Clarke says, sitting up a little bit, unconsciously adjusting the lapels of her jacket. “We just got done with our show in jacksonville, so we have a short break and then we’re off to New York.”

“Sounds fun.”

“It is. The guys and I don’t like planes so...” she shrugs. “We’ll take our time, hit up some stops along the way. We owe a guy a favor in Charlotte and Adam’s got his blog he runs which means we stop at diners a lot. Dan makes sure we don’t get lost and Jon will down an entire pack of beer as an excuse not to drive. You know, it’s the high life.”

“Speaking of,” the host begins with a small smile. “Where are they?”

“Around,” Clarke says, sly, just as the camera cuts to backstage, showing three men waving faux shyly at the camera. The shot returns to Clarke and the fond quirk of her lips now plastered to her face. “They said they didn’t want to steal my thunder.”

“Steal Clarke Griffin’s thunder?” the host says. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

You smile to yourself, taking your foot from the stool and swiveling back towards your computer and recording software left idle on the screen. It’s not much right now, but with a little work it will be. The show goes to a commercial break not long after and you pay attention with half an ear as the sounds cycle through sponsors and advertisements. It’s when you hear the audience’s cheer and Clarke’s husky laughter that you let yourself be distracted again.

You cast a glance over your shoulder, lingering on Clarke’s face as she tugs distractedly at her hair, trying to hide the blush that has settled warmly in her cheeks. Behind her on screen is a picture of her tripping live on stage.

“You know,” Clarke starts, waiting for the audience laughter to subside. “You know, in my defense I told Jerry, our sound engineer, I was going to trip on that wire before we started and I just didn’t want to disappoint him. It was very hard to see and I was in my own little world...”

“The show was still great, though.”

And Clarke smiles. “I try my best.”

There’s a genuine cheer from the audience and Clarke seems to live in it, smile wide, looking out and across the people offstage. Her eyes sparkle and she looks down and away as the noise goes on, picking at something under her nails, and you’re intimately familiar with the feeling. You’ve learned not to let it show and apparently so has Clarke.

Only when the host clears his throat do the noises taper off. “Is there something you’re most looking forward to in New York?”

Clarke lifts her shoulder in half a shrug, managing to still the fidgeting of her hands. She keeps her gaze low for a moment or two as she considers the question presented. “I’ve been dying for a new york style hot dog since last week,” she says looking up. The host chuckles. “But besides that… New opportunities? Meeting friends? Taking a walk down times square? I’d settle for any of those things.”

“Well, cheers to all those things and more.” He pauses. “Once again thank you for joining us today, Clarke.”

“Thanks for having me.”

“Unfortunately that’s all we have time for today. Be sure to catch Clarke and the Astronauts in just two weeks live at the madison square garden.”

You turn away just as the host shifts to address the camera, plucking idly at the strings and the soft, dull sound they make fills the space around of you.

 

* * *

 

@ClarkeJGriffin: Officially in the big apple! Hey @LexaWoodsOfficial care to share your new york hot dog wisdom with the rest of us? #iamsohungry

Your lips quirk when you see the notification, slouching back in your chair and resting your chin in the palm of your hand, elbow propped on the armrest. You don’t do twitter very well or very often, more content with your instagram photos and the occasional snapchat. It feels so much more... impersonal than you like, but you find Clarke Griffin is the perfect motivator for just about anything.

@LexaWoodsOfficial: @ClarkeJGriffin Pierres on 47th. Try the honey mustard.

 

* * *

 

You have an invitation to a movie premier that sunday that you decide to attend last minute on the off chance that maybe you’ll get lucky. Not in the typical sense, perhaps, because when you see her there on the carpet it feels like you have.

She’s wearing this pretty red dress and you sneak glances at her in between shouts of your name, and it feels like too much and not enough. You’re not sure what to do with your hands so you stuff them into the pockets of your fitted slacks and face forward again.

You don’t smile, but the inside of your chest feels lighter than it’s been in weeks. It’s pure chance then that you bump into her on the way to your seat. You catch her eyes and her lips quirk, the added height of your heels causing her to look up at you.

“Hi,” she says and she steps in close to avoid the people as they pass by behind her to their seats. You feel a little starry eyed.

“Hi,” is your immaculate response, this breathy one syllable word that makes you feel smaller than you are. Your chest feels a little tight, and you feel your fingers toy with the buttons of your blazer.

“I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Neither did I.” There’s a moment following where things drown away and you feel that little upwards tick to your lips. Your hand stops fiddling, drops, and the smile spreads. You catch the downward glance Clarke’s eyes make. “How are you liking it?”

She looks up again. “Liking...?”

“New York,” you say. “Did you try the hot dogs?”

“I did,” she says, and the curl of her lips seems to match your own.

"Clarke!"

At the sound of her name, her attention shifts and her head swivels. You look over her shoulder and find one her bandmates, Adam you think because you didn’t really make an effort to remember his name. His hair is shaved on the sides, curly on top, and he tries to flick it out of the way, reaching out to touch Clarke’s arm. He smiles at you in greeting.

“Clarke, our seats are this way.”

She looks at him, nods in understanding. “I’ll be there in a second,” you hear her say. He rolls his eyes goodnaturedly (as if sharing a joke with you), pats her shoulder, and leaves.

“If you’re around,” you trail off, and it's the look in her eyes when she catches yours, that not so smile you see in the color of her cheeks and the lights in her eyes. “Get in touch.”

And Clarke smiles. “Sure.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke DMs you the day before her concert. A friday night and you’re out with Anya, only a couple of drinks in, but you already feel kind of light. The music pulses steadily under your skin and it allows you to breathe.

_Good places to check out near times square. Go._

You get lost looking at the screen of your phone for a moment too long because Anya nudges you in the side, watching you over the rim of your mug of beer, and you turn away from her slightly disoriented, wondering what that half-smile translates to in english.

_I can show you?_

Is somehow your response. Anya grins as you shrug into your jacket five minutes later, waving off the money you try to shove into her hand, and all but pushes you out the door. You’re not far away and it takes a taxi five minutes to drop you off near 43rd street and broadway.

Clarke’s not hard to spot but then again you’re looking for her. Just outside starbucks in an open zip up hoodie and leather jacket. Her sunglasses slip low on her nose, rather useless against the traffic and neon lights. It’s in the moment before she sees you, in between random pedestrians and the nightlife that passes her by.

She glances up from her phone when you step close and you watch as the recognition loosens the tension from her face, how her glasses shift as her cheeks dimple with a smile. She’s shorter than you by an inch or two and it takes you a little bit by surprise. You wonder why you never noticed till now.

There’s a chill to the air and she stuffs her hands along with her phone into her pockets, moving close so the both of you take up less space on the sidewalk. It might be the darkness and the lights playing tricks but no one notices you there in times square, and you’ll savor the moment while it lasts.

“What are you up for?” you ask and she gives a small shrug.

“A little bit of everything, I guess.”

So you show her just a little bit of everything. It’s not much to you, a new yorker born and raised. The wonder died fast, but she seems taken with it--the atmosphere of it all. You’re sure it’s nothing she hasn’t seen.

“I’ve never been,” Clarke says. She’s a few steps ahead of you, but when she turns, pulling the sunglasses low, you catch the lights in her eyes. “I mean. I’ve been to New York, but I’ve never, you know, gotten the chance to see it for myself.”

“You’re not missing much.”

And she stops and so do you. “Maybe.”

You spend the better part of the night with her, wandering in between the streets of times square and feeling like you’re not apart of this world. Like this little separate space has detached itself for you and second you let it go it’ll be gone for good. It’s a hesitancy you’re unsure how to break or if you even want to, but Clarke has a concert and you have work and it’s really as simple as that.

She invites you though. Backstage for her concert tomorrow and you look at her in those neon lights and hope. You decline, however, and try not to think about the flash disappointment you see in her eyes.

 

* * *

 

You come across a video of the concert on youtube purely by accident. A shaky camera recording from a girl in the front row, but you see Clarke at the edge of the stage, ripped jeans and a loose sleeveless shirt that shows the black of her bra when she moves. She bounces her leg in time with the drums, lips pressed to the mic, tossing her hair back when it falls over her shoulder and into her face. You can’t really see her eyes as the focus goes in and out, but when the song ends and the roar of the crowd drowns out the echo of the final chords, the camera shifts and she ruffles her hair, the lights catching the thin coat of sweat near the collar of her shirt and along her neck.

Her smile is bright and she does this little celebration dance, a shuffle of her shoulders and a subtle sway to her hips that ends far too soon, and she laughs at the audience’s disappointment.

“Trust me guys, you don’t want to actually see me dance,” Clarke says, wrapping the microphone cord around her right hand a few times and then unraveling it. The spotlights flicker as she passes in front of them, returning to her spot near center stage, and she glances over her shoulder at Adam, offering the barest of nods.

It’s quick count off into the next song and you close out of the tab before you end up regretting it.

 

* * *

 

You invite her over to your little southside apartment the next time she’s in New York City and somehow you’re naive enough to think it’s a good idea. You make the excuse that you’re both musicians and that you want to see more of her than you have and that it seems like she does too.

She brings a bottle of wine and it looks expensive when she places it down on your counter. She shrugs out of her jacket, draping it across one of your dining table chairs, preoccupied with the the various memorabilia and instruments hung about your walls as you rummage through your cupboards for wine glasses.

“I’m beginning to like New York,” she says, turning to accept the glass of wine from you. She takes a sip and you get stuck watching her lips. She doesn’t seem to notice.

“As opposed to?” you trail off, forcing your eyes up to hers.

“Cali.”

She looks softer somehow, cradling a glass of wine, hair pulled back from her face and relatively make-up free. Her sweater looks threadbare worn and there’s a hole in the cuff she sticks her thumb through and it dawns on you in that moment that you kind of want to kiss her.

“It’s the world class hospitality isn’t it?”

“No. Not particularly,” she says, watching you, the slightest of smiles on her lips, and you lean your weight against the counter.

You realize she has no intention of elaborating. “How was Boston?”

“Boston,” she states nonchalantly, looking around again. You find you like watching her. “It’s always nice there.”

“I have a small show in provincetown in a couple months.”

She looks back, curious. “First time?”

“No, but I’m still looking forward to it.”

“Your kind of crowd?”

You hum an affirmative, hiding your smile into the lip of the wineglass. “Apparently also yours.”

Her smile widens before she can stop it, looking away to glance back at the guitars lined up next to your desk. She eyes the epiphone riviera against the wall and you push off from the counter, setting your wine glass down on the coffee table as you pass, and pluck it from its stand.

“Do you want to try it?”

“Oh… oh I can’t--” She tucks a strand her hair back behind her ear. “Adam’s been trying to teach me to play and I’m taking to it like a fish to air. I know a couple simple chords and that’s about it.”

“Acclaimed rock star Clarke Griffin can’t play the guitar?”

“I’m learning,” she says, embarrassed, moving closer to you as you sit down on the couch. “Slowly. It’s all gibberish to me.”

You test a few chords, making a few tuning adjustments, and the sound is soft without the amp. Clarke finds a spot next to you, placing her glass next to yours, and watches.

“Do you like rock?” Clarke asks as you finish tuning and you place your open palm over the strings to quiet the sound.

“Sure,” you say with a subtle lift of your shoulder, glancing at her. “I don’t see why not.”

Clarke grins and you make a move to hand her the guitar but she shakes her head, holding out her hand to stop you. “Next time.” She keeps her eyes on you, though, seemingly amused by the look on your face. “But please don’t stop on my account.”

“I prefer the acoustic.”

She smiles wide at the tease, reaching forward for her glass of wine and taking it back with her as she rests against the couch. She settles the base against her shoulder, and you play a few notes before stopping to reach for your glass. You take a sip before putting it back.

“Collab with me?”

Your fingers pause and you glance at her, just a quick look before turning to stare absently at your knees. You strum a few chords, warming up your hands, and then stop. “We’re both busy people, Clarke.”

“What about now?” she says, and you look at her this time. “Pick out a song and let’s drive the internet crazy.”

You chuckle, taking a moment to think before standing. You wander back to return the riviera to its stand, picking up the acoustic propped against your desk and the camera attached to the tripod. It takes minute to set up the microphone, but you're back on the couch before long.

“How do you want to do this?”

Clarke sits up, moving closer until your knees bump, balancing her glass of wine on her thigh. The music from the guitar is crisp and you start and stop, testing out a few different songs you’re familiar with. Clarke stops you when she seems to recognize a tune.

“That one,” she says, touching you briefly on your knee. “Main or chorus?”

“I don’t want to steal your thunder,” you respond. She nudges you playfully with her shoulder and you clear your throat. “I am more than fine with the chorus.”

She places her glass on the table, wiping her hands over her thighs. “Test run?”

You nod and count yourself in, your foot tapping a light beat against the floor. It takes a few tries before you feel comfortable, fumbled words and fingers, Clarke’s laughter and your insistent smile, but you don’t expect it.

You don’t expect the seriousness that crosses Clarke’s face when you go in to start for real, that subtle bob of her head to the beat as she runs her left hand through her hair, pushing it back only for it to tumble forward again not seconds later.

Out of the corner of your eye you can see the red indicator light of the camera, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. Clarke’s voice is soft and almost quiet and you find yourself lost in the way the light of your apartment settles over her cheeks, her knee touching yours, and you think that maybe you’re in way over your head.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
_“My love, roulette, roulette. In a pretty black number, I bet. I'mma fall in love 'fore I... 'fore I roll out of bed.”_

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my love || until the ribbon breaks


End file.
